


Tonight

by captain_tots



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a life where nothing is lasting or dependable, her inconsistency is the only thing he can be sure of.  Angst driven PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> "I Know It's Over" is the intellectual property of The Smiths. 
> 
> This story is meant to be nonlinear. Hopefully it still makes sense...

_And you even spoke to me, and said,_  
 _"If you're so funny, then why are you on your own tonight?_  
 _And if you're so clever, then why are you on your own tonight?_  
 _If you're so very entertaining, then why are you on your own tonight?_  
 _If you're so very good-looking, why do you sleep alone tonight?”_

 

* * *

It's been nights since he's seen her last, and he's not sure if he's going to be able to breath much longer. He needs her presence, the indulgence of her skin on his own.

Simple, superficial dalliances—which he suspects she can brush off with a shake of her shoulder—these are the singular moments he lives for, in a life where nothing is lasting or dependable, her inconsistency is the only thing he can be sure of. She comes and goes as she pleases, rubbing herself up against him like a wayward alley cat, there in the evening, gone in the morning.

She calls him “handsome” and strokes his neck with her lips, teases his cock with her lovely long fingers, slides off her little thongs with one hand. She's all black and red, impressing herself into his thoughts forever.

Red lips, red dress, red blood.

Black hair, black lace, black heart.

She slides on top of him just like they were made to fit together. Her hands against his chest, hot, sticky breath on his cheek. She moves like a woman possessed by a combination of otherworldly grace and intensity. They don't speak; they just breathe.

This moment could very well be the last they ever have, why ruin it with words? Words can cut and twist and deceive.

Her body is always truthful.

The crumbling, fading, uncertainty of their relationship is part of the appeal, he's well aware. Could he love someone dependable? Someone always there when he needed her, someone understanding and kind and patient?

Not as much as Ada.

She guides his hands to her breasts, smiling sly like a fox when he obliges, biting down on the corner of her bottom lip. She's easily pleased and hard to satisfy.

He's fucking entranced by her.

And as long as they're doing this, he can delay the onset of reality. Why bother with real relationships and women when tonight might be the last chance he ever gets to see her?

She tightens around him, moaning impeccably at the same time, digging fingernails into his chest, leaving little red crescent moons on the skin. He doesn't want them to fade out. He'd gladly be marked up by her forever.

But none of her is lasting.

He tries, he tries to live a normal life, in the months when she's away God-knows-where, but he's always hoping she'll come back. And the girls he brings home talk too much, they fuss and whisper and don't want to leave marks. They're scared they'll hurt him; they don't know that's what he wants.

And he finds notes in his apartment—did she steal a copy of the key— _“I want you to be happy.”_ Sealed with a red lipstick kiss.

And he scrawls out in his messy black sharpie print, “then come back.”

So he'll return to his bed to find her warming it, milky long limbs draped over his comforter like a piece of art. After that, it's just a phone call to Jennifer or Tracey, _“It's over, it's over, it's not you, it's me.”_

He could blame Ada, but she's nothing more than a willing participant, drawn to his bed by his own request, his own strange mixture: fear of commitment and a decade long obsession with a single woman.

She's lovely in the brief, teasing glances he gets of her in the morning light, before she neatly assembles her things and leaves. He never says goodbye, that would imply that she may not return.

And she might be gone tomorrow, never to return, and then he'll have to return to the world, and the people who inhabit it, with their words and their hello's and goodbye's. With reality.

But, tonight, he'll delay that just a little longer, with her lips around his dick, his hand up her dress.

She's all red and black; she's merciless in her beauty.

They don't speak because words are for liars and thieves, and they have no time for deception.

The clothes are on the floor, their bodies are on the bed, and when it's over she won't say goodbye, because that means it won't happen again.

They live and love and fuck in a series of disjointed moments.

Tonight.

* * *

_Love is natural and real_  
 _But not for you, my love_  
 _Not tonight, my love_  
 _Love is natural and real_  
 _But not for such as you and I, my love_

**Author's Note:**

> Dear SLT, my apologies for the dick. I just couldn't bring myself to change it.


End file.
